


Driver

by Anonymous



Category: Motorcity
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 20:37:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1483063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>roll up the partition, please</p>
            </blockquote>





	Driver

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ehmazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehmazing/gifts).



You can feel the hum of the whole vehicle through your heels. The floor isn't just carpeted---it's plush, and the trim on the seats and surfaces gleams. This couldn't be just a... stretched out version of a car. The longer drive shaft would mean it would be heavier, balanced differently. The transmission would have to be modified, the gear-to-gear range more gradual. Unless you just tapped _way_ more power off the engine?

"I said, what do you think the Duke is up to?"

You blink. "What? Sorry. Why are you whispering?"

Mike Chilton leans in closer. "I think the Duke has to be... planning something."

"WOULD YOU LIKE MORE REFRESHMENTS? YOU CAN GET THEM YOURSELF. I AM DRIVING."

You think Mike has a tiny heart attack. He flinches like the tires have blown and tries to shield you from---he looks around---the ceiling! The door? The other door?

Nothing happens. You start breathing again. You don't think Mike himself realizes he's gripping the skull piece from Mutt. He must have had it under his jacket. You don't want to laugh at him---you _also_ think the Duke is up to something---but you can't help giggling a bit. In a cheery voice, you call out:

"We're fine, Dan, thank you. Your face looks better, by the way."

"I CAN NOW BE COMPROMISED BY VIGOROUS SHAKING OR MAGNETS, BUT THAT WAS ALWAYS TRUE."

Babs had---to the best of her artistic skill---demonstrated the paired knobs on Cyborg Dan's new head. You like Babs. You wish Claire would give her more of a chance.

Mike is still watching the minibar like he expects it to talk. He's tense. If the Duke is ferrying you and the complimentary drinks fridge into a trap, you need Mike to be calm. Not that you're not a little on-edge too. You've got the remote starter for Nine Lives tucked into your bra.

You decide Mike Chilton needs to be distracted... and you know _just_ how to do it.

"How do you think they adjusted for the longer frame in this?"

"More suspension. More power cells."

You wait. Mike frowns. His fingers are still tapping on the skull piece. That was not the distraction you thought it would be. When is Mike Chilton too nervous to think about cars?

You think about laying your hand over his, so he'd look at you.

"I'd feel better if... if you weren't here too," he says, suddenly. He's not whispering, this time, but his voice is quiet.

Several responses immediately come to mind. You don't utter your first thoughts. "You think I'd let you get into.... _anything_ driven by Cyborg Dan by yourself?"

"I know, I know. The Duke wanted the leaders of all the gangs for this, and that's as much you as it is me, now. But.... I hate putting you in danger."

"You put me in danger all the time!"

"I _know_! It's terrible."

You touch him---your fingers on his sleeve. "Seriously?"

He shakes his head, like he can suddenly hear how ridiculous he sounds. "I don't know why you put up with me."

There's a certain way you feel, when he smiles at you like that.

The rumble of the axle still comes through your heels, and through where you're sitting, and even in the touch of your fingers on---You pull your hand away from Mike's arm. The couch style seating means you could shift just a little and be touching the floor, and for some reason, being close to Mike makes you want to press your palms and stomach into the noise of the engine. There's a clench in your chest that doesn't disappear when you breathe out.

You look out through the windshield, up where Cyborg Dan is driving. It's the only piece of truly see-through glass in the whole car. All at once, know what Mike's next distraction is going to be.

"Dan?"

"I AM THE DRIVER."

"Dan, could you be a dear and seal off our section back here?"

"IF THAT IS WHAT YOU WANT."

You have a memory: the premiere of a new banquet center, and a parade of cars jammed in a cordoned street in Deluxe. You'd worn a dress---pale blue and white, to perfectly match everything else. Your chauffeur had raised the divider at some signal, and for several minutes, you'd felt like you were in a private bubble, listening to the city outside. You don't remember the banquet, or your father's speech. You have tried to forget that you spent most of those minutes making silly faces at the guards on hoverbikes outside, where they couldn't see you through the tint. _That_ , at least, is something you've never described to Claire.

"IF YOU WOULD LIKE ANYTHING ELSE FROM ME, THAT WOULD BE DISTRACTING. I'M STILL TRYING TO DRIVE H---"

The panel slides into place with a little hiss and click. Mike doesn't notice at first. He's touching something by his ear as you turn back to him.

"That was Chuck. He says they would have had to cut _through_ the original brace lines to extend the length on this, if this wasn't the original frame."

"Take off your earpiece."

"Wait, what? Hang on, why is the divider up?"

You adjust your center of gravity, bracing your knees when the limo curves. The dress you're wearing now is a bright yellow. Beneath it: tight shorts with the Kane logo melted out of the band---your favorite for driving. The dress is slim on your hips. You don't try to twist your arm behind you and touch the zipper. You don't pull the yellow straps away from your shoulders. Instead, you step around Mike's legs and bend over the minibar.

You wait. Wordlessly, Mike peels his earpiece from his head and places it in an empty cocktail glass.

"Do you... want me to---"

You cut him off. "Mike! Keep your voice down! We don't know how soundproof this is."

"Actually," you add, looking over your shoulder. "You shouldn't talk at all."

You hope he won't notice that your knees are shaking---just a little. Maybe he'll think it's the suspension, or the road. He makes contact in three places, his hands on your hips and kissing at your back, and the pull of the vehicle means he has to hold _you_ before he's balanced again. You grip tight on the lacquered edge of the small fridge. Your heart is racing. You have a feeling you're going to need to hold on.

"Julie..." He doesn't keep talking. You adore him like this, when he's consumed by you. You wiggle back against his touch as he--- _finally_ \---gets his fingers into your waistline.

The pattern of dulled light through the sunroof changes. Wherever you're being driven through now has enough cell or generator power to install streetlights, _and_ to keep them running. Were you near Tennie's district? You suddenly remember another detail from your first time in a limousine: fogging up the glass with your breath and drawing tiny cats with your thumbnail.

You think this is because you can feel Mike Chilton breathing on you, now.

He drops to his knees to lick into you. The hum of the car resonating through your body changes as you go up on your tiptoes. One of his hands is: somewhere ; His other hand is holding the elastic of your shorts. You think about having to pull them back up, after this, and the little chaste kiss he'll give you that will taste like you. How much time do you have? Can you even stay quiet?

Mike certainly seems to be as eager as you are. The hand in your shorts is cupping you, now, and beginning to make slow circles. You feel _him_ hum, or moan, just after you feel yourself twitch at something he does---and then does again. And then again, and then you're caught in trying to hold back your own voice. You reach out to hold onto the adjacent seat, your fingers needing to squeeze something, and your nails dig into the upholstery.

Mike Chilton's other hand taps you on the shoulder. You turn back, but he's motioning for you to be quiet, one finger pressed to his lips. You _know_ you have to be quiet. What _is_ this. You don't understand why he's stopped. You're practically panting, and it takes you a moment to realize what he wants you to see.

Slowly, he licks his index finger clean. The hand he's holding to his mouth had been the one held against you. You blink first, and when you open your eyes again, he's pressed his face under your dress once more.

By the time the limo slows down, you're settled neatly on your own side of the built-in couch, the fabric at your hips nicely smoothed over your thighs again. Mike has taken a few small sips of something from the minibar---which hadn't said anything at all. You absolutely do _not_ watch his tongue as he does this, or wonder how that Duke's Brand Fizzapple No Apples Cola would taste if you kissed him. _Your_ hair is fine. _His_ hair is... a little messed up. You think it's perfect.

"You still feel bad about me coming along?"

He shakes his head. "No. I need you, Julie."

The brakes thin out the engine's sound, and then everything is idling. Mike hooks his earpiece back on, and tucks the silver skull into his jacket. Then he reaches out to touch your hand. 

"I need you all the time."


End file.
